Before the Next Storm
My book buddy Bill died today.
We never really got a chance to bond.
A violent storm had been brewing in his minds Bering Sea for days,
maybe years, we can't be sure -- suddenly.
When I met him, he had been afloat in a convalescent boat
pleasantly restless, a ravenous reader, eating through
stacks of library books, words crusted in the corners of his mouth.
I only boarded Bill's shanty boat a few times to bring him new books,
and share brief words or mutual wonders or local war stories about
Santa Cruz business shenanigans, or the fact he had a sister
who had lived in Visalia where I grew up.
He liked listening to the northwest
roar of Art Bell's didactic late night chatter,
and his comedic roommate's bad joke banter,
a white bearded man in a wheelchair in a boat next to Bill,
who heard the distant echo of rim shots,
and longed for neon applause signs.
My book buddy Bill died today.
We never really got a chance to bond.
I walked down to West Cliff and watched the sun pass over the bay
and into the hills and houses beyond the university and Highway 1.
The sky was make-believe and melted black eddies.
Waves pounded and pasted the rocks
with thousands of pages of tiny printed words.
Sea lions barked warnings, so I bolted home and called my parents
because Mom has a new library card,
and we've got a lot of reading to do before the next storm.
I turn on the t.v. to baby-sit Joshua
while I get ready to go outside for a run,
and by chance, the Jerry Springer show is on,
and Michelle is berating Shahonda
for taking her loving ex-husband away from her,
a man called Gentleman Jackson,
who then appears strategically on stage;
Gentleman Jackson pushing over chairs
and yelling at Michelle for being a nasty ho
who can't take care of da' children,
and bleep this and bleep that,
and Shahonda supporting her new loving husband
by telling him to beat the crap out of all of 'em,
'cause de be da' ho's and da' bitches
and suddenly Jerry's bouncers have to keep da'
peace between the lovely ladies and Gentleman Jackson,
the audience yelling Jerry, Jerry, Jerry--
and then a news bulletin displays these words
across the bottom of the t.v. screen:
"A jury in Texas has sentenced a white supremacist
to death for the dragging death of black man..."
I turn off the t.v.,
lie down slowly on to the couch,
and take a nap.
Joshua hunts for stray kibble kernels and snorts.
--Kevin W. Grossman
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